


balancing on the blade's edge

by lilithqueen



Series: From Ashes [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, aethas is an arcane engineering nerd and probably shouldn't be left alone with toolboxes, co-starring headcanons: modera and aethas are friends, sex gets mentioned but I don't know if that deserves a warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9776924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: After finding Felo'melorn, Aethas is allowed back into Dalaran. Now he has to find the notes he left behind...and decide who to give the sword to. Rommath is less upset than he could be.





	1. balancing on the blade's edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinyforce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyforce/gifts).



His old apartments were still locked, a mercy he hadn’t considered. Perhaps the Kirin Tor had thought he was too open, too guileless, to have any secrets worth taking. Perhaps Jaina had thought there would be plenty of time to ransack the place after he was dead and just hadn’t gotten around to it with the business of ruling Dalaran.

(A stab of pain and grief, sharp as a knife through his heart, and he had to lean on the doorframe and close his eyes as it washed through him. So many innocents imprisoned for years, so many _dead_ because of his folly, because he had gambled on Jaina’s potential rage being more merciful than Garrosh’s certain fury. _Was this your revenge? Your vengeance upon me, for vouching for the one who went on to betray you? He betrayed me, as well. Jaina, Jaina, I swear I did not intend any of this._ )

It was dark inside, and the dust lay heavy on everything. It was nothing like the suite he’d been occupying in the Sunfury Spire, with its gilded elegance and its resident cats. He’d picked these furnishings himself, and could dimly recall feeling very proud of the well-made simplicity of each piece. That day felt very far away now. As his gaze swept the room, it felt as though he saw his surroundings through thick glass. _That_ morning, he’d sat on the couch to go through his mail; he’d made himself tea in the kitchen just through that curtained alcove there, from which now emanated a smell he decidedly did not want to investigate without protective gear.

And there, on the other end of the room, was the entire reason he had begged on bended knee to be allowed into Dalaran. The arcane wards on his study door were still intact; as he approached, gesturing for lights, the magic woven into the wood pulsed and shimmered. He took a slow breath, laying the fingertips of one hand gently above the sparkling violet strands of energy. He hadn’t thought about this spell in years, hadn’t thought he’d need to; now that it came down to unraveling it, it took all of his concentration to ensure he wasn’t making a wrong move. One slip too many, and every arcane device in his apartment would combust.

(“Aethas,” Modera had asked, “Don’t you think you’re being a bit…overly careful?” He had shown her his notes, then, and—after some time and a good deal of swearing—she had agreed he was showing what she had teasingly termed “unexpected wisdom, coming from you” until he turned her into a penguin.)

The arcane fizzled. He breathed out sharply.

_(Oh. Oh, she knew, all along she must have known what I could do with these notes, and she kept my secret from Jaina—the trolls must be right, and I did something very good in a past life to gain such a friend.)_

Slowly—torturously slowly—the locks ground together, each impossibly complex thread of energy unwinding as the door slid back into the walls. His study looked the same way it had when he’d left; enchanted devices he’d been building were still scattered across the floor, and in one corner there was still the towering stack of scrap notes he’d never gotten around to organizing. He wouldn’t need to worry about them anymore; his focus went to the desk itself, where there was a hidden compartment he still remembered how to access. Hands shaking, he knelt on the floor and drew out the box within.

To the untrained eye, he knew it didn’t look like much: a simple pine box with a locking lid, stuffed full to the brim with spellwork-covered sheets of vellum. Indeed, even a trained eye would have a difficult time deciphering both the code he used and the spells he’d written with it. But in the hands of a master—himself, Jaina, Rommath, Khadgar—his notes would be invaluable resources with which to train fellow spellcasters.

…Or, and he couldn’t help but grin to himself with an echo of the glee he’d felt when the realization had first struck him, they could just as easily be plugged into the spell matrices for anima golems. It was not quite the sort of respect and admiration he would have _liked_ , but being the man responsible for increasing Thalassian military might a thousandfold did at least seem likely to bring the highly desirable side effect of Rommath only occasionally frowning at the sight of him, instead of it being a constant occurrence.

 _Granted, I don’t imagine he’ll be best pleased to learn he could have had Felo’melorn, but_ really _. If he’s wise, he’ll understand I simply couldn’t give it to such a high-ranking member of the Thalassian government. The Council never would have agreed to let me in for the notes otherwise, and they’d have my ears if they found out._ As he rifled through his papers—yes, they were all in order, he’d only have to box them up—his ears twitched in concentration. _What am I to do with that sword? I certainly can’t wield it. Modera would never forgive me. And…my Sunreavers…_

His Sunreavers no longer. Some had still clung to that loyalty, and he cherished them, but many did not; they avoided him in the street, and looked upon him with pity or disgust when they deigned to look at all. He couldn’t blame them. Still, he couldn’t countenance giving the blade to them, which left…well. It left a very short list. He’d never exactly had many friends, not the sort he could trust with a ten-thousand-year-old magical Thalassian sword of kings. They would have to be loyal to Quel’thalas, a powerful warmage, trained in swordplay as well as magic, and ideally a Magister, or at least one with ties to that organization. _On the other hand, I have met Magisters. Where is there one who I could give the sword to, and know they would use such power for the right aims? Who_ could _use such power, without being consumed by it or chopping their own hand off?_

He stared into the shadows without seeing them, running down the mental list of those he’d met. Of them all, only one stood out—clever, curious, with an iron will and the right skillset to make proper use of the blade. And best of all, not even Rommath could find fault with his choice. “Hmm.”

Yes, Magistrix Verrinde would be perfect.


	2. the gymnast, high above the ground

Rommath’s study was unlocked, as it normally was when he was in residence and expecting work to arrive at his door. Aethas still hesitated before knocking, unsure of the reception he’d get. Surely Rommath knew he’d arrived, and was well within his rights to throw him back out again without a hearing. _It would be just like him, too._

“Come in.”

That was some progress, at least, and he made himself hold his head high as he strode in; even though he’d gone straight from Icecrown to Dalaran to Silvermoon and his injuries stabbed at him with every step, he would not let Rommath see his weakness. The room beyond was vast and well-lit, designed to make petitioners feel small. Remembering the last time he'd been here, with the man hoisting him up on the desk to fuck him until it had been a real struggle to bite back his cries of pleasure, did not help. It didn't erase the chilly silence that had existed between them ever since he'd told him he was going to Dalaran again, and which was somehow even worse than the argument which had preceded it.

(Granted, _that_ had been bad enough. Rommath had called him a self-serving imbecile and worse, and Aethas had thought he might have struck him if there hadn’t been a table between them and an audience in the room—an audience which Rommath ought to have been thankful for, because Lor’themar’s gaze on them had been the only thing stopping Aethas from responding with magic.)

Rommath was frowning at the papers on his desk but straightened up as Aethas entered, eyes turning cold as he slipped off his reading glasses. “So, I see you’ve returned alive.” His voice was as flat and unimpressed as it would have been if he’d stepped out for errands, instead of a highly dangerous mission in search of a sword that might not even still be in one piece. Aethas hadn’t expected anything less.

(Maybe part of him had, but—“If you are captured again, I will not come to your aid.” That had been Rommath’s parting shot, cold as winter in Icecrown, and he’d only been able to respond with silence.)

_(If I fail now, I won’t deserve it.)_

“I did.” _Let him ask._

“And the sword? Did you find it?” Rommath looked almost eager, ears twitching slightly in a way that, he told himself sternly, should not make him want to nibble on them.

He nodded, letting his pride seep into his expression. “I did. In Icecrown, as I saw.” _And you thought I was wrong. Hah!_

Rommath’s ears lay back flat against his skull as he fixed Aethas with a gaze that might have made lesser men quail. “Well? Where is it now?”

He couldn’t help but smile. “In safe hands. I have decided to grant it and its power to Magistrix Verrinde, for the betterment of Quel’thalas.” She’d made a noise like a startled hawkstrider and then clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger, but it had been absolutely worth it.

It would have been suicide, but the expressions passing across Rommath’s face made him _long_ for a camera. Given the circumstances, he was impressed by the restraint in the Grand Magister’s tone when he found his voice. “It might have served you better in the hands of one of your Sunreavers, if not in your own. And I believe _I_ am still supposed to be in charge of outfitting my Seeker of Wisdom.” He paused, and his voice grew edges. “I am surprised you didn’t turn and hand it right over to Modera.”

His ears trembled, but he made them stiffen into a perfectly neutral position; he could recognize bait when it was lobbed at him with great force, and Rommath hadn’t even tried for his usual subtlety. Still, it stung; he hadn’t expected such a low blow so soon. “Magistrix Verrinde is the only one with the skills _and_ the chance to use the sword in battle as it was meant for.” His gaze swept the desk with its stacks of paperwork before returning to Rommath’s face, noting the way his expression shifted as he added, “And I did tell you, did I not, that I meant to aid our people? With Dalaran opened again, I can bring you an army.”

Rommath settled back in his seat, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Your Sunreavers are barely enough troops to fill our audience hall.”

“Not my Sunreavers.” The idea was audacious. More than that, it was _personal_ —but if anyone could see the true scope of what he had to offer, even through their own hatred, it would be Rommath. _You’ve always insulted my methods, but never my craft. Let’s see how you feel about the pinnacle of my research._ He took a breath, ignoring the way it made scrapes sting along his ribs. “I…may I open a portal here? It will be easier to show you.”

Sharp green eyes narrowed warily, but then Rommath was getting to his feet. “…Very well.”

Before he could second-guess himself, he turned and pulled open a portal to his study in Dalaran. He’d cleaned up as best he could before leaving, so it was _probably_ fit for company. Not that it mattered if Rommath was impressed by anything beyond his research, of course.

\--

Rommath had never been in Aethas’ quarters before, and certainly not the ones in Dalaran. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from a space claimed by Sunreaver—a complete mess seemed likely—but he hadn’t thought it would be so _small_. The study they’d stepped out into was barely half the size of his own; books colonized every surface and served as makeshift tables for various crystalline shards. Frozen orbs had been pressed into service as paperweights for stacks of vellum, glowing slightly with the magic inside of them. All the windows had been thrown open, but there was still a faint, lingering smell that made him wrinkle his nose. “Has something _died_?”

Aethas’ ears turned very slightly pink as he turned away, picking up a few densely inscribed scrolls. “The Kirin Tor did not exactly give me a chance to empty out the icebox before they arrested me. I won’t be able to live here for quite some time while it’s all cleaned up, but soon enough I’ll be spending most of my time far out of your way. Rejoice.”

 _I should._ He found himself watching Aethas’ gloved hands, noticing the way they trembled slightly. This was the closest they’d been in weeks.

(In retrospect, perhaps he’d been cruel, but in the heat of that moment all he’d been able to think was _it would be such a waste if you died_ and _I will not allow it_.)

Now, he found his gaze sharpening a bit more than he’d intended. “I think not, unless you’d prefer I appoint Astalor to your position in the golem division.”

Those freckled ears pinned back as Aethas glowered at him. “I did not say I would be spending _all_ my time here—and I am certainly not going to let anyone else apply _my_ research to _my_ golems.” Roughly, he smacked a scroll down onto the desk next to Rommath’s hand. “Here; this is somewhat out of date—they all are—but I’m sure you’ll find it useful in that area.”

He unrolled it, belatedly wishing he’d brought his reading glasses. It was too late to go back for them now, however, so he settled for holding it slightly farther away from his face and hoping Aethas didn’t feel the need to comment on his squinting. For a long moment, the twisting spirals and sharp, sudden angles of the spell inked on the page didn’t make sense, and he felt the beginnings of a snarl build up behind his tongue—then he tilted his head a bit farther back, and all the pieces fell into place.

 _There_ , those runes would channel the arcane energy safely, and the curls he’d thought were useless frippery would be fine anchor points for a trainee mage to focus on—or to hook onto the spell matrices Aethas had developed to program the anima golems. The spell wove from the top of the scroll in a lazy curve all the way down to the bottom, where it terminated in a glyph that would have been deceptively simple if he couldn’t just make out that it was made up of dozens of smaller ones interlaced with each other. _I see what he was saying about the army. With our golems outfitted like this…_ “Hrm. This is…impressive. Are there more?”

Aethas had taken up a position leaning against his desk, hip cocked in a way that gave him the same lazy curve as his spellwork. Eyes gleaming triumphantly, he gestured around the room. “Within a week, these will all be boxed, copied, and on your desk, Grand Magister. I swear it.”

It was almost unnoticeable, but Rommath caught sight of a wince as Aethas moved; as he finally took in the tattered state of his armor, he found himself frowning and drawing closer. “…At some point during this week, I order you to show yourself to the healers. Preferably _before_ you start working.”

Aethas frowned up at him, face wary. “Why, Rommath. It almost sounds like you’re concerned about me.”

He stopped, suddenly very aware that he’d been about to reach for him and—what? _Pull him into my arms? Yes, because that would go over well._ To his relief, his voice came out evenly. “You _are_ the one who has so graciously provided Quel’thalas with the equipment that will help us win the war against the Legion. It would be a true shame if you died before you could see that day come to pass.”

This close, he could feel the heat from the younger mage’s body as he leaned in; the still-respectable distance between them was shrinking imperceptibly, and a familiar light was sparking in Aethas’s eyes. Heated, but by now he’d known him long enough to know that desire and challenge were very nearly the same. “Oh? You’re sure you’re not just enraptured by my research?”

And really, that face was _unfair_ —bold as brass, with the beginnings of a smirk that said he was thinking of certain nights during which, in Rommath’s defense, he really had intended to talk about work at some point. The sensible course of action was to retreat, and so accordingly he averted his gaze. “Your methods are unconventional, but I am intrigued by the possibilities you raise with the results _.” I shouldn’t. This is beyond foolish. But…_ “I’d be interested in discussing your spells further after my meetings. Meet me in my study.”

Surprise flickered across Aethas’ face for a brief moment before it was replaced by a coolly victorious expression, and his eyes gleamed hotly enough that if Rommath wasn’t sure the young mage was hiding injuries he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to be pinned against the desk. His voice, though, was perfectly controlled. “Of course, Grand Magister.”

As he portalled back, he idly wondered if he could get his secretary to cancel his morning meetings the next day. It would throw his schedule into disarray, but it would almost certainly be worth it.


End file.
